A Secret, a Song, and a Spy
by wordwolf
Summary: AliasAngelAmerican Idol. What are ace spies and fearless champions to do when a coveted secret item lies buried in the heart of ... America's favorite singing competition?
1. Default Chapter

A SECRET, A SONG, AND A SPY

(Alias/Angel/American Idol)

This story is set during the first third of Season 3 of Alias and Season 5 of Angel, and the auditions for Season 3 of American Idol. It is not intended to make any sense.

DISCLAIMERS: All characters from the TV show Alias are the property of J.J. Abrams. All characters from the TV show Angel are the property of Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. All characters from the TV show American Idol are the property of Almighty G-d, I guess, although the show is the property of Simon Fuller. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.

"Diamond Dogs" written by David Bowie. "Mandy" written by Barry Manilow. "We've Got Tonight" written by Bob Seger. Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.

With thanks to the late Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett for the names.

This story may be reproduced and distributed without charge if proper author credit is given and disclaimers are retained. Feedback is welcome.

Rated PG for some mild profanity.

Okay, I think we've got everything taken care of. Gentlemen, start your engines…

A SECRET, A SONG, AND A SPY

By wordwolf

1.

"Il Silencio." Jack Bristow's voice was crisp and ominous in the briefing room. "The most recently located Rambaldi device. Located, but not recovered."

"Not yet," Marcus Dixon replied, just as crisply.

All eyes were on the display screen and its image of an elegant cylinder of glass, carved pale wood, and polished copper. It looked something like a too-short telescope, or perhaps a too-expensive kaleidoscope. "What does this one do?" Lauren Reed asked softly, switching her gaze from the screen to look quickly around, reading the ring of faces.

"Exactly the point." Marshall Flinkman went into his usual near-random staccato. "If we had it, we'd be able to figure out what it does, except we don't have it – yet, as the Deputy Director was so helpful as to point out – so we're all here now to figure out how to get it, so that we – or maybe just me – can figure out what it does, which is where you come in, Sydney …"

Sydney Bristow smiled just a little. "Right. So where am I going, Dixon? And with whom?"

"Fortunately, travel will be easy on this mission," Dixon replied. "It's already right here in Los Angeles."

But the elder Bristow's set jaw and slightly narrowed eyes disputed his superior's optimism. "We've been tracking it as best we can since it was apparently unearthed in Turkmenistan and borne to this country by a courier of uncertain origin – "

"Not the Covenant?" Sydney felt cold along her spine.

"Apparently not," her father answered. "But whomever he was working for, it looks as if he didn't complete his mission. We lost track of him just outside O'Hare Airport, picked up his trail again at Colorado Springs, then lost him a second time. We think he was wounded somewhere along the way and possibly died here in LA ; his body hasn't been found yet, but we know where he hid the device before disappearing. And according to our present surveillance, no one has attempted recovery yet."

"So it should be no problem just to go pick it up," Agent Michael Vaughn observed reasonably.

"Not exactly." Bristow switched the slide. The image of a familiar downtown landmark loomed on the screen. "We know the courier ditched Il Silencio somewhere in one of the service areas of this hotel. We have to get in and out with the device this very day, before anyone else can get it – but it's going to be more of a challenge today than otherwise."

Placid as ever, Agent Eric Weiss even shrugged. "Why?"

"Unfortunately, this place isn't its usual quiet and businesslike self. By what must be some very poorly timed cosmic joke, it's currently the scene of several days of auditions for the most popular talent contest in the country."

Despite herself, Sydney's face lit up. "You mean American Idol is in town?"

"I love that show!" A look around at their faces showed that others agreed with Marshall.

Bristow barely concealed his irritation. "Yes. And now that they've begun, the only way in is to be an approved, auditioning contestant, or accompanying one." He picked up a set of papers from the briefing-room table; on one of them was a long string of large black numerals. "We've got all the paperwork for someone who's passed a producer audition and in the list to be seen by the judges' panel."

Sydney considered this. "So am I supposed to search out and recover the Rambaldi device before or after an audition? Timing could be critical."

"Exactly why you won't be faced with that particular choice," said Dixon with a grin. "Agent Weiss will partner you on this mission, and will handle the audition itself. The papers are for him. You're going to be looking for Il Silencio while he provides your cover." The grin was now aimed at Weiss. "Enjoy yourself, Agent. We'll see to it that your face doesn't end up on the broadcast."

"But what if I pass?" Weiss teased.

"Don't sweat that, Weiss. I've heard you sing," Vaughn teased back.

"Yeah. You're just jealous because you're not getting to do it; you can't pass for twenty-five anymore." Weiss ran a hand over his own smiling face. "Something to be said for a little extra flesh to fill in the wrinkles, right?"

"I can't sing, either," Vaughn admitted.

His wife put on a little simper. "Oh, honey, don't say that!"

"Why not? It's true. I can't carry a tune in a wheelbarrow."

"Enough," Bristow cut in, ending the banter. His tone made it limpidly clear what he thought of intelligence agents who would waste a second of their precious lives watching reality TV. "Sydney, Weiss, go home and change. You'd better arrive together. T-zero is exactly 10 AM."

XX

The CEO leaned back luxuriously and swung his feet onto his immense desktop. The array of gleaming weapons on the back wall seemed to surround him like a cold steel aura. "So what do you have for us today, Wesley?"

Wesley Wyndham-Price laid the dusty leather-bound book on the desk. It was already open at the correct page. "Il Silencio," he said darkly, portentously.

The others gathered for a look. Angel himself swung his feet back off his desk and leaned in, studying the illustration. The exquisite engraving, set within a handwritten black-letter Latinate text, depicted an elaborately chased and polished tube. "Nice," Angel observed. "And this concerns us because?"

"Because Ebalon of Zarkandhu paid an immense sum in pure gold to the Brethren of Omrund for its recovery and transportation here to Los Angeles." Wyndham-Price ended on a slightly haughty note.

"And why would he do that?" asked Charles Gunn suspiciously.

"It's obvious!" came a hearty, British-accented voice as the door burst open. "It's just the proper _objet d'art _'e needs to set off 'is new drapes. Or something."

Angel turned narrowed eyes up to the doorway and the newcomer. "Spike, you're late."

"Hi, Spike," said Winifred "Fred" Burkle shyly. "At least you're not _that _late."

"Late enough, I should think," the blond vampire replied cheerfully.

"Late enough to piss me off. But let's move on." The CEO of Wolfram & Hart stood up and leaned over the book, bracing himself on his arms. "What's the significance of this artifact, Wesley?"

The slim dark man used his own much classier British accent to best effect. "This is the latest to be located of the notorious creations of the fifteenth-century Italian alchemist-sorcerer Milo Rambaldi. I can't find a specific reference as to exactly what this one does, but considering both the devastating effects of some of the other pieces, and their rate of disappearance in the last three years, we certainly cannot afford to let this one fall into the wrong hands."

Gunn probed, "And those wrong hands include Ebalon of Zarkandhu's."

"Exactly." Wesley nodded. "Not to mention the Yarnith Circle, and the cultists of Averon the Damned. I for one am astonished that the Brethren of Omrund honored their bargain with Ebalon and did not keep the artifact for themselves, for eventual use or sale to the highest bidder. It might have had something to do with Ebalon's penchant for extracting the viscera of those who displease him through their anuses." He shut the book dramatically. "Gentlemen, and Miss Burkle – " at this Fred blushed and smiled – "we must recover Il Silencio as quickly and quietly as possible. Who here of us can sing?"

"HUH?" Gunn had clearly spoken for them all.

"Let me explain … "

"Oh, as if anyone 'ere can stop you from running on!"

"Spike!" Angel rumbled warningly. "Go on, Wes."

"Thank you. The Brethren apparently unearthed Il Silencio somewhere in Central Asia and brought it here by means of a carefully programmed homunculus – a solid magical simulacrum of a human being. This seems to have been done to avoid any ill effects to a Brother from the influence of the artifact. But apparently the homunculus was slowed down by the need to shake some kind of pursuit – by whom, we do not know – and by the time it arrived here in Los Angeles, its life force was drained almost completely. The last thing it was able to do was conceal its burden before it used the last of its energy and faded away."

"So where do we have to go to get this thing?" Angel demanded.

"Unfortunately," and Wesley sighed, "somewhere under the hotel that happens to be crammed to the penthouse windows today with the auditions for that silly pop-singing contest show. Now do you understand why we need someone who can sing?"

"Yeah, now everything is starting to make sense. Sort of." Gunn shrugged. "That's usually the best we can get." Then he perked up a bit. "On the up side, that throw-down between Ruben and Clay last year was cool."

"Yes, of course." Wesley used the tone of a man with little patience for trivia. "Angel, if you could be so kind as to ask Harmony to come in, and to bring those papers I told her to obtain …"

"What kind of papers?" Gunn wanted to know.

"Forged identifications and passes for the auditions," Wesley explained. "After all, there's not much to be said for controlling a powerful supernatural law firm if we can't make use of its resources now and again."

Angel was considering carefully. "No way can we send Lorne," he observed. "We need a singer who's human – or at least can pass for one most of the time."

From where he paced at the edge of the room, Spike suddenly halted in his tracks, an itchy feeling rising up his spine. "Now why the bloody hell is everyone suddenly staring at ME?"

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. A Secret, a Song, and a Spy chapter 2

A SECRET, A SONG, AND A SPY 

(Alias/Angel/American Idol)

By wordwolf 

Disclaimers in part 1.

Chapter 2.

Sydney Bristow and Eric Weiss strolled into the hotel lobby. No untrained eye could have marked how they quickly and precisely sized up everyone they passed – eager young people in every shape, size and color, every one accompanied by at least one encouraging relative or friend. In their own turn, the intelligence agents were gratified to find themselves ignored by all those eager young people and their encouraging escorts, and especially by the television cameramen who seemed to be wandering around everywhere. In their supremely ordinary t-shirt and blue jeans ensembles, they expected not to be noticed, and they weren't.

It was touch-and-go for a moment, though; from the corner of her eye Sydney noticed a flash of spiky blond hair and frenzied motion, coming up quickly on their left flank. "Hug the wall, Weiss," she whispered.

He angled his eyes, but not his head, betraying nothing. "What is it?"

"Ryan Seacrest at eight o'clock," came her warning. "If he talks to us, it could be broadcast."

"Got it." Smoothly, subtly, they altered course, moving from the main drag of the lobby to slip into a group of contestants and companions huddling and hanging near a quieter corner. The American Idol host, wearing what looked like safari gear for an expedition to the dark heart of Greenwich Village, bounced past them and buttonholed a trembling young thing who seemed about to fall to her knees in homage.

"Wow," Sydney commented _sotto voce_ to her companion as she watched from across the room. "Some people are pretty worked up about being here." Getting no immediate reply from Weiss, she turned to him; her eyes widened. Her colleague was shaking. "Weiss, are you okay?"

"Oh, I'm fine, Sydney, but there's something going on here that you might not understand." He indicated the numbered paper pinned to his shirt, then met her eyes, his gaze entirely serious, his tone grimly professional. "Think about it, Syd. You just have to recover the Rambaldi device ahead of the Covenant's agents. _I_ have to walk into that room and sing in front of Simon Cowell!"

Sydney nodded darkly. She understood.

Far sooner than they were ready for, a door gaped open. Behind it could lay one thing and one thing only. In a voice that might as well have been machine-generated, a scrubbed young lady read off a name and a string of numbers that froze Weiss in place. _His._

He turned to his colleague. "This is it – for both of us. Good luck, Sydney."

"Not to worry," she replied gently. "Good luck to _you_, Weiss." Unexpectedly she landed a peck on his cheek, enjoyed his answering smile, then watched as he entered the audition room. Yes, he'd be all right. Now it was time to move the mission forward. Wait a minute or so, so as not to seem in any hurry, then casually amble over to the nearest stairwell door; once behind it, activate the hookup back to Marshall. "This is Mountaineer. Penetration achieved."

"Beautiful, Mountaineer, just beautiful, as always. Have you activated the signature tracer yet?" Marshall sounded pantingly eager, as always when one of his new devices was to be put to the field test.

"Activating now." Sydney brought out the cellphone-seeming device, opened it up, and got it working. A pinpoint of blue light blinked pale on the tiny screen. "I'm getting a reading on Il Silencio, Marshall, but it's very weak."

"Yeah, the range isn't everything I would have wanted for it, but you gotta go with what you know, as they say, right, Sydney? Oh, and you remember from my briefing – you always remember my briefings; that's why I love working with you – that it'll also give you a heat signature for any active human presence within four meters of you. That way you'll know if anyone is near the device, or sneaking up on you, or if you should just slip into a shadow and hang out for a little..."

Michael Vaughn leaned in closer above Marshall's shoulder. "Marshall, you yourself observed that she knows all this already."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, Mountaineer."

Sydney smiled. _Thanks, Vaughn_, she thought. Of course, she would die before letting the sentiment slip out to Marshall. "Heading downstairs and southeast. Mountaineer out."

XX

Rubbing his hands together, partly to hide their shaking, Weiss entered the audition room, his heart racing. _This is it!_ burned through his mind. He crossed the room to the mark and with a final gulp, turned to face the table – to face THEM. Randy Jackson, Paula Abdul, and especially Simon Cowell. The Aeacus, Minos, and Rhadamanthys of the pop music world would now sit in judgment upon him.

The first thing he noticed was that Paula wasn't there. Ice suddenly formed around his heart – _Oh NO! She's the nice one! I'm sunk for sure..._ That was when something suddenly occurred to him, all at once in a flash of inspiration: _Wait a second. I'm an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency, member of an elite secret corps entrusted with the first-line defense of these United States. I've been shot at and shot, been hunter and prey on five continents. I have NO REASON AT ALL to spaz out over a goddamned talent show. _

Now he felt a lot better. He was actually able to relax a bit, even as he heard that familiar British-accented voice say, "Let's see ... Eric Weiss." The notorious Simon Cowell looked up from the list on his clipboard and actually smiled. "Well! A name to conjure with – pun intended!"

"Yes, sir," Weiss replied with a smile of his own. "My mom loved magic."

At Cowell's right, a perplexed Randy Jackson turned to his fellow judge. "Magic? Simon, you mind letting me in on the joke?"

The Englishman didn't mind at all. "Eric Weiss was the birth name of the performer you no doubt know better as Harry Houdini."

"Ah! Cool. Then let's hear if you can make a little magic right here," Jackson said heartily. "What are you going to sing for us today, Eric?"

Weiss had this part all worked out, of course. "I thought I'd sing 'We've Got Tonight,' by Bob Seger."

Cowell flipped a hand. "Off you go, then."

Weiss took a deep, centering breath to begin, then closed his eyes. _Now's not the time to play it cool,_ he told himself; _it's all about feeling..._

"I know it's late, I know you're weary

I know your plans don't include me

Still here we are, both of us lonely

Longing for shelter from all that we see

Why should we worry; no one will care, girl

Look at the stars so far away

We've got tonight; who needs tomorrow?

We've got tonight, babe, why don't you stay?"

It was working. He was feeling it; the ache, the stinging behind his eyes, and it was all coming out in the voice as he went into the second stanza:

"Deep in my soul I've been so lonely,

All of my hopes fading away

I've longed for love like everyone else does..."

Another voice suddenly cut across his. "Eric."

Weiss stopped, opened his eyes. "Yes?"

"Eric, your voice really does have potential," said Cowell, turning his pen over and over in his fingers. "But I must ask you a question: Have you ever had any kind of singing lessons or voice training?"

"No, I haven't." It felt oddly bracing to be able to tell the truth in the field for a change.

"One can tell," the British judge replied, not unkindly. "I'll be quite honest with you; you have a strong voice with fine tone, but utterly untrained. If you ever intend to sing other than in the shower, you simply must develop your instrument."

Beside him, Jackson shifted his bulk and nodded. "I've got to agree, man. You got some real talent there; I heard a lot of feeling in your song, but Simon's right. You're just not ready for this show, dog."

It was even more bracing not to be dismissed out of hand. "I understand. Thank you, gentlemen." Weiss left the audition room with a smile, and kept his tightly trained presence of mind to check carefully for cameras and Ryan Seacrest before stepping out into the public area. Now to reach the rendezvous point at the north atrium entrance/exit and wait for Sydney. He got there in a minute's strolling and found a wall to hold up. Settling in to wait, he let his mind wander from the mission. God, it felt so GOOD not to suck! Maybe some voice lessons might be a nice diversion after all...

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. A Secret, a Song, and a Spy chapter 3

A SECRET, A SONG, AND A SPY 

(Alias/Angel/American Idol)

By wordwolf 

Disclaimers in part 1.

Chapter 3.

The two leather-clad figures strode through the hotel lobby as if they owned the place and it was filled with treasure. The broad dark one in the mid-length jacket leaned over to his companion and growled _sotto voce_, "Just go in and get it done. I don't want any theatrics or attention-hogging; got it?"

"Should've thought of that before you gave me the job, mate," chortled the lean blond one in the floor-length coat.

"I meant what I said, Spike. Go in there, do your number, and get out. Meet me at the west exit, and I'll have the artifact." Angel peeled off, leaving Spike to continue on toward the crowds of contestants while he slipped into the nearest stairwell.

_Yeah, right, mate, and good riddance. Now time for a bit of fun for a change._ Spike found a group of contestants milling around, and did a bit of his own milling. Now and then he noticed some girl or another looking at him, and flashed back a look of his own, but nothing was going to distract him, not here. When his name and number were called, it came as a relief and a shock at once.

Spike tried to look confident, swaggering into the audition room. It was easy when he kept in mind that he was capable of snapping all the judges' necks in a matter of seconds – whether he actually ever would or not. "'ello there!"

"Well, hello!" replied Cowell, obviously pleased to hear an accent from the old country. "From my part of the world," he glanced at the list, "Spike?"

"That's right." Spike was able to hide a moment's disappointment at not seeing Paula Abdul there, and gave the remaining judges a big broad grin.

"Just Spike?"

"That's also right."

Jackson folded his arms and gave the contestant a narrow look. "Isn't it a little early to be using a stage name, dog?"

Spike stretched the grin toothily. "Oh, I've been around a bit longer than you might think."

"Okay," Jackson said agreeably. "Whatcha gonna sing for us, Spike?"

"A bit o' Bowie. 'Diamond Dogs.'"

Cowell smiled and nodded. "Off you go."

Spike couldn't be more ready. _A cappella, this_... He played back the music in his head, felt the rhythm move into his limbs, and went for it.

"As they pulled you out of the oxygen tent, you asked for the latest party

With your silicon hump and your ten-inch stump

Dressed like a priest you was, Todd Browning's freak he was

Crawling down the alley on your hands and knee

I'm sure you're not protected for it's plain to see

The Diamond Dogs are poachers and they hide behind trees..."

He had it! He had it in a death-grip and it wasn't getting away; Spike snarled and spit the words, letting the beat swing him and move his boots, his coat flapping like black wings as he stamped back and forth hard across the floor flinging the song into their faces...

"Hunt you to the ground they will, mannequins with kill appeal

Will they come? – I keep a friend serene

Will they come? – oh baby, come unto me

Will they come? – well, she's come, been, and gone

Come out of the garden, baby, you'll catch your death in the fog

Young girl, they call them the Diamond Dogs

Young girl, they call them the Diamond Dogs!

"That Halloween Jack is a real cool cat, and he lives on top of Manhattan Chase

The elevator's broke, so he slides down a rope

Onto the street below – "

"Spike!"

He slammed to a halt in mid-stomp. "What?"

"Whoa, dog!" Jackson recoiled from the contestant's growl. "You don't have to go on, 'cause you are GREAT! You got edge, you got punch – Simon, I say we send him on."

Spike's jaw dropped. He felt as if he might suddenly melt away onto the floor.

"Well, Spike," Cowell began in a considered tone, "I have to concur with Randy that you are a first-rate rocker. That song especially is perfect for you. I would be concerned, however, whether or not you could deliver on a ballad or a classic show tune."

"Oh, I can, I can! Right now! What d'you want: 'As Tears Go By'? 'On the Street Where You Live'? Just gi' me a chance and – "

"Relax, Spike." Cowell was smiling indulgently. "You'll get your chance to show us. You're going to Hollywood."

"What? I am? WELL ALL RIGHT!" To the judges' astonishment, Spike shot four feet straight up and almost connected with the ceiling.

As the ensouled vampire barreled out of the audition room, flourishing his new yellow ID tag, he was suddenly accosted. "Looks like we have another success for today in LA!" Spike had a microphone pushed under his nose, a bubbling blond boy attached to it. "Hi, I'm Ryan Seacrest, and you are?"

"Bloody damn GREAT, I am!" In a delicious rush of excitement, Spike grabbed the American Idol host with both hands, pressed a kiss on his face almost hard enough to crack the perfect cheekbone, and flung him across the room. Seacrest slammed against the wall nine feet away and slid to the carpet as the lucky contestant went leaping across the lobby, whooping and punching the air all the way.

With a groggy shake of his head, Seacrest picked up himself and his fallen mike and rose unsteadily to his feet. "Well, now we see what a break like this can mean to an aspiring performer. Tomorrow's superstar? We'll find out as American Idol continues..."

XX

_How long have I been down here?_ Sydney Bristow felt like she'd covered miles, both vertically and horizontally, since entering the underground service areas of the hotel. There were two levels, not counting the parking garage, and the Rambaldi device's radiation signature was so weak that sometimes she lost the signal entirely. No fault of Marshall's, though; there was so much concrete and iron down here that it was near-miraculous that the tracer worked as well as it did. And helpfully, it was flawless in warning her, with a very soft beep and a spot of red on the screen, whenever a hotel employee was getting too close. Sydney sneaked, hid, and sneaked again, and soon was gratified to see the blue indicator strengthen. It was near, and she was drawing nearer.

She was reaching the bottom of the basement; soon the service areas would give out into the underground garage. But the tiny blue light was now bright as a planet at midnight, and the agent noticed a bundle of wires clamped to the wall, leading to an electrical terminal box not far away. A sudden hunch and a pulse of the tracer proved the case; Sydney approached the box, turned the latch – and caught the delicate, sinister object as it tumbled out.

Il Silencio. It was theirs. "This is Mountaineer, reporting recovery of objective."

"That's great!" exclaimed Marshall.

"Well done, Mountaineer." She could hear pride and affection in Michael Vaughn's voice. "Proceed to rendezvous point."

Suddenly she heard another voice, this one deeper and harder, coming from behind. Sydney glanced down at the tracer; it hadn't sounded its signal, and no red indicator was there to match this new presence. "Not so fast," it announced triumphantly. "Turn around, and keep your hands where I can see them. That artifact is now the property of Wolfram & Hart."

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. A Secret, a Song, and a Spy chapter 4

A SECRET, A SONG, AND A SPY 

(Alias/Angel/American Idol)

By wordwolf 

Disclaimers in part 1.

Chapter 4.

Sydney turned, dropping the tracer to free at least one hand. The dark man behind her was broadly built and muscular under his black leather jacket, the slight smirk on his lips belied by the melancholy shadow in his eyes. Under other circumstances, she might have been pleasantly impressed, but at the moment her main concern was to dispose of the interloper ASAP.

Slowly she held up Il Silencio and her empty right hand. The agent noticed to her secret satisfaction that he stood at ease, arms folded, seemingly with no expectation of any trouble. Or maybe he just put too much trust in those big bull muscles. _That's right, jerk, keep smirking; the bigger they come, the harder they fall..._

Sydney kept a worried, rabbit-in-the-headlights look on her face for the stranger's benefit. He nodded and extended a hand. "Good. Now give me the artifact. I'm glad we're going to do this the easy way."

For a moment Sydney considered a snappy comeback, but that would have given her away. Silently she took a shaky step forward – and snapped a pile-driving kick right into his solar plexus, sending him staggering back toward the stairs. _Beautiful!_ She permitted herself a smile.

That was when she noticed two things at once: the voice panicking into her comm-link – "Mountaineer! COME IN, Mountaineer! What the hell are you doing?" – and the big man leaping easily back onto his feet. He hadn't gasped when she struck; there had been no telltale whoosh of breath, and now he wasn't winded in the slightest.

And he was coming on fast. "Lady," he said with dangerous amusement, "it was your choice to do it the hard way."

Sydney barely dodged the right jab to her face, and rolled with the blindingly quick follow-up kick that caught her high on the shoulder. He hadn't been ready for her at first, but damned if he hadn't recovered in record time! Now he was coming on again; she met his blow with a forearm block with the limb holding Il Silencio, and sent her own jab under his guard to hammer his left kidney. He took a step back – but that blow would have sent most men doubling over, and again this one didn't even gasp.

Vaughn was shouting in her ear. "Mountaineer, what the hell is going on?"

Panting, Sydney kept it terse. "A single hostile, possibly Covenant."

"What?!" Now Marshall was adding to the chaos. "What hostile? Sensors say you're alone down there, Syd!"

"Hmm... so she talks in combat," said the enemy mockingly. "Either she's bipolar or the boss keeps her on a tight leash. So who sent you? Are you working for the Yarnith Circle? Or the Brethren of Omrund?" He punctuated the question with a flurry of blows, and a kick that cracked the wall directly behind where Sydney had been a microsecond before. "Or did Ebalon of Zarkandhu send you?"

It was all Sydney could do to protect the precious device from being shattered – and her own head from being taken off. And her colleagues' desperate voices seemed to be drilling her skull. "What's that voice, Mountaineer? WHAT IS GOING ON?!"

From the shadows, under a dark canopy of pipes and wiring twenty feet away, cold blue eyes watched the fight with gloating pleasure. This was going very well, very well indeed. It was obvious that the big man was going to rip Sydney Bristow limb from limb and appropriate the Rambaldi device. And Sark was happy to let him do it. Later he could take down that simian himself and take charge of Il Silencio.

But right now was time for other things. Time to go back upstairs and make use of these documents. Sark smirked at the thought of the silly boy from whom he'd taken them. Said boy was now out cold, tied up, gagged, and stuffed in the trunk of a Ford Taurus down in the parking garage. They'd find him by tonight, especially if he woke up and started kicking the steel, but Sark was not worried; the kid had no description to give them. A secret agent is only seen when he wants to be.

Right now was his time to be seen – by certain people in particular. With an unseen, ironic little bow to the struggling Sydney Bristow, Sark took his leave, slinking up the stairs and to the scene of his next triumph. Then, after that, Il Silencio would be his.

Sydney couldn't stand it. This antagonist had the face of an angel, the moves of Jet Li, and the power of a charging rhinoceros. And the frantic shouting in her ear was driving her mad; Vaughn and Marshall could get her killed if they distracted her at the wrong moment. With only a split second to decide, Sydney opted for the risk of total isolation. "Stand by; Mountaineer out!" As she dodged the other's next strike, Sydney leaped out of his range and used half a movement to switch off her comm-link. Now she could turn all her attention right where it belonged. "Are you Covenant?"

That slowed him down a bit. "WHICH Covenant? There's got to be a hundred of them. Not to mention all the Brotherhoods and Circles and Fellowships and God only knows what else, and we've got files on all of them. Now why don't you just hand over that artifact and you don't have to tell me which one you're with."

_What in the name of James Jesus Angleton is he talking about?_ For a moment Sydney wondered which one of them might be crazy. Then he was lunging at her again, making a grab for Il Silencio. Sydney flipped it easily to her other hand and took advantage of his extension to slam a foot under his chin. His head snapped back, then took her left cross that sent him slamming against a concrete support pillar.

For a fleeting second Sydney hoped that she might have incapacitated him, but he bounded back up. He seemed not angry, but exhilarated: "Okay, you asked for it." His hand vanished into his coat; before she could react, it flashed back out, brandishing –

_A sword?! _

"My God!" Sydney exclaimed, diving as steel sheared the air above her head. She fled across the basement and he pounded after her, aiming another swing at her neck, missing only narrowly. Now the CIA agent could see only one slim chance; she jacked up her speed, made the opposite wall two seconds ahead of him, and used those seconds to whirl, crouch, and whip her own weapon out of its ankle holster. She drew a bead on his center of mass, one hand clenched on the little semiauto and the other protecting Il Silencio, and watched in satisfaction as he slammed to a halt. "Drop it," she commanded.

He might have stopped, true, and lowered the sword in his hand... but his smug smile showed no fear, none at all. "Babe," he said coolly, "you have no idea what you're dealing with."

"Neither do you," she pointed out.

"Sure, you've got a gun. It'd slow me down a bit, but there's no way you can stop me."

"Try me." Slowly she raised her aim from his chest to right between his eyes.

And he chuckled. It was a cold, scary sound... and suddenly Sydney gasped in astonishment. His smooth, untroubled brow suddenly wrinkled, then clenched like a fist, lumping into ridges like some horrible Botox accident. The brown eyes now glowed a baleful yellow, and his lips drew back from canine teeth grown long and sharp even as she stared, incredulous. He spoke again, the same voice now terrifying coming out of that unearthly, hellish face. "I'm out of patience. Give me the artifact. NOW."

And Sydney saw her last chance. Without moving her gun from its bead on his deformed head, she asked quietly, "Why do you want it?"

That seemed to catch him up for a moment. "Why do you think? To keep it out of the hands of whichever occult society sent you."

"Occult society? Not quite. I'm CIA."

"WHAT? Lady, I have heard some whoppers, but I think that one's my new favorite!"

She carefully lowered the Rambaldi device to the floor and moved her free hand slowly toward her pocket, not letting her aim waver. "Look, let me show you my ID." He watched suspiciously through those hot golden eyes, letting her draw out the leather case and toss it to him. Easily he snatched it from the air with his free hand and flipped it open.

As he read her credentials, his forehead smoothed out again, his eyes softened back to brown, and the cruel fangs retracted as if they'd never been. "CIA Agent Sydney Bristow. Cool. Well, they really do teach their people how to fight." Sydney smiled with the compliment as he tossed her ID back to her and she put it away. "So what does the CIA want with Rambaldi's magical artifacts?"

"Exactly what you say you want: to keep them out of the wrong hands." She could not help revealing classified information; it looked like the only way out of this stalemate. "We've been accumulating them for some time now, often barely ahead of notorious terrorist groups." There; that was vague enough. She picked up Il Silencio again, holding it almost lovingly. "I'm sure we could keep it more securely than you could."

"Well, you probably have a lot more experience at it than my firm does. But are you really going to just keep it safe? I mean, you're not planning any of those hush-hush nasty experiments, are you?"

"Put it this way," Sydney said reasonably as she holstered her gun and came erect again. "Who'd you rather had convenient access to these things, your own government or Usama bin Laden?"

"Good point. Besides, that'll be one less responsibility for me to worry about. I've got enough of them already." He smiled, sheathing the sword in the hidden scabbard under his arm. "You know, my firm has done a little work for state and federal agencies here and there. If you guys ever need plausible deniability on something tricky, we can get the job done. Call Wolfram & Hart, Attorneys."

She smiled back. "I'll be sure to keep you in mind, Mr. – ?"

"Angel. We're in the book and on the Web."

"Thanks. Maybe someday you can show me how you do that little trick with your face!"

"Maybe. Good luck, Agent Bristow." He stepped forward to shake her hand in a firm, cold grip, then turned, rose up the nearest stairway and was gone.

Sydney took a deep, relieved breath as she watched him go. It could have gone very differently, but everything had worked out, or so it seemed. In her pocket she found the special radiation-impermeable microfiber handbag for transporting the device, unfolded it, and secured Il Silencio within.

Then a forgotten detail returned to her. _Oh, damn it – Vaughn and Marshall! They must be frantic_... She snapped her comm-link back on and tried to sound unruffled. "This is Mountaineer, reporting objective secured. Proceeding to rendezvous point now."

Vaughn and Marshall WERE frantic. Especially Vaughn, who was gasping, "Syd! Oh, thank God! What happened, Syd? Why'd you turn off your link? What was..."

"Don't worry, Vaughn; everything's under control now. I'll fill you in at the debriefing." She smiled wryly even though no one was there to see. "You'll want to make sure to be at this debriefing; it's going to be very, VERY interesting..."

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. A Secret, a Song, and a Spy chapter 5

A SECRET, A SONG, AND A SPY 

(Alias/Angel/American Idol)

By wordwolf

Disclaimers in part 1.

Chapter 5.

Sark didn't deign to look at any of the contestants as he made his dignified way through the chaos of the lobby. Noise and chatter and snatches of song everywhere, all from fools who were every one of them convinced of being the one among millions. It was amusing.

Fortunately it wasn't long before they called him – by the name of the boy in the trunk of the Taurus, of course. Sark took his time, ambling slowly. Never let them think you needed them, or even cared. When he made it into the audition room, Sark turned slowly toward the judges, looking down his aristocratic nose as if THEY were auditioning for HIM. Only the two men were sitting in judgment. Just as well; that Paula was an annoying featherbrain all through the first two seasons anyway.

Simon Cowell looked from his list to Sark, then at the list again, with a distinctly bewildered expression. "Ahem... D'antayShawn Washington?"

"Yes," replied Sark primly.

"Are you absolutely sure?" Sark only looked at him narrowly, and Cowell shrugged and went on. "Very well. Why are you here, D'antayShawn?"

Sark knew very well what they expected. Everyone said the same thing: "To be the next American Idol." Stupid. Sark decided to have a little fun – and tell the truth. "For my own purposes."

"What the – ?" Randy Jackson was just as puzzled as his colleague. They exchanged glances, both shrugged again, and apparently decided to just accept it. "So go ahead."

Sark drew a deep breath. Time to show these fools something they'd never forget...

"I remember all my life

Raining down as cold as ice

Shadows of a man,

A face through a window cryin' in the night,

The night goes into

Morning just another day

Happy people pass my way

Looking in their eyes,

I see a memory – I never realized

How happy you made me..."

"D'antayShawn..."

"Oh Mandy, well, you came and you gave without taking

But I sent you away

Oh Mandy, well, you kissed me and stopped my from shaking,

And I need you today – "

"Yo! D'ANTAYSHAWN!"

Jackson's voice suddenly cut into Sark's attention, and the singing stopped. There were two sighs of relief in answer.

"Yo, dog, who on earth ever told you you could sing?"

"I don't know what you are trying to prove, but your singing is utterly ghastly!"

Sark's jaw dropped. What was the matter with these clowns? Weren't they supposed to be experts? "Well," he sniffed, "that's YOUR opinion. Good day." Drawing himself up and putting his nose in the air, he took his dignified time on the way out, just as he had on the way in.

That effervescent jackass Seacrest was at the exit. _Oh, hell._ "So, how do you feel now that – "

"Oh, stuff a sock in it, Seacrest." Sark pushed on by. It was time to collect the stupid Rambaldi device, get out of here, and the hell with the whole thing. Maybe the Covenant could get the damn show cancelled, or something.

Back in the audition room, Jackson shook his head. "Man, that guy SUCKED."

And Cowell nodded in full agreement. "I don't expect we could possibly hear anyone worse." With that, he turned his attention to the opening door. In came an uncertain-looking boy with a patterned blue shirt, a high pale forehead, and a beaver's teeth. Cowell glanced at the list. "Hmm... your name is William Hung?"

XX

"How'd it go, Weiss?"

From where he waited, Weiss turned to Sydney's voice and smiled. "I didn't suck. And you got it?"

She patted the handbag. "Let's get back. It's going to be some debriefing..."

At the other end of the atrium, Spike saw Angel coming and ran to intercept, leaping and pumping air the highest and hardest yet. "Angel, I did it! I BLOODY DID IT! I'm going to 'ollywood!"

"No, you're not."

Spike crashed back to earth. "What? Why the bloody hell not?"

"Well, when they take all the finalists out into our famous LA sunshine for publicity shots, some dust could damage the cameras, for starters."

"Oh. That." But Spike brightened. "We'll think of something by then."

Angel sighed. More of this crap he was going to have to deal with. "Spike, let's just get to the garage and back to the office, okay?"

"YOU can go do the nine-to-five shuffle all you want, mate, but I'm going to find me a drink and an open mike!"

Angel sighed again. "Spike, it's only one in the afternoon."

"Oh." The blond vampire shrugged. "Tonight, then. But I'm still not going back to that office. Not yet, anyway." He grinned toothily. "Maybe I can get me more face time with Ryan!"

"Whatever. I'll see you." Angel headed for the exit stairs down toward the garage. On the way, he reflected on the eventful morning. The CIA chick had given him a serious workout; he smiled at the thought. Maybe the firm might even get a nice government contract out of the encounter. Even better, he now got to drive the Viper back without Spike's dubious company.

It took a little wandering around before he saw the car, but soon enough he caught sight of it across the way. What a beautiful machine. Maybe he'd indulge himself in a little extra travel before going back, just to clear his head. He stepped past an empty Dumpster to cut across the garage to the company car.

That was when he felt the gun barrel behind his ear. "Very good," said a smooth, mocking voice as he halted in his tracks. "Now we can make this simple. Give me Il Silencio, and I might let you walk out of here alive."

Sark set his trigger with a small cold click to make the point. This was easy, and bringing back the Rambaldi device would certainly help make up for those two oafish pop-music drones who thought they could humiliate him...

The man he held at gunpoint flopped his head back and sighed in annoyance. "I don't have time for this crap." Sark was puzzled for a moment – until the other whirled, clamping hands like steel onto his shoulders. Sark felt himself rise into the flourescent light close to the garage ceiling, then come plunging down into darkness. Through the pain of impact throbbing in every muscle, he heard the crash of the Dumpster lid falling into place and shutting out all the light.

He lay aching as he heard a muscle engine roar to life and pull away. The Covenant wasn't going to like this. Not one little bit.

EPILOGUE

"I do not believe this. No, really, I cannot BELIEVE this!" McKenas Cole was glowering from his considerable height. The frankly strange shape of his face added to the intimidation factor.

But Sark refused to be intimidated. "You are free to make of it what you will."

"It's not enough to audition for American Idol when the whole damn intelligence community knows you've got the voice of a '66 Ford Fairlane with a perforated muffler and engine knock! No, you've got to sing 'Mandy'! Christ!"

The Covenant agent pursed his lips, making no secret of his disdain for his superior officer. "It speaks to me."

"Yeah, I'll just bet it speaks to you. And it says, 'Here's a way you can get even LAMER!' I mean, get some goddamn PERSPECTIVE, Sark. This is the Covenant. We're a ruthless international conspiracy. We've got an IMAGE to uphold. It won't help if word gets out that our top field operative has a hard-on for the most terminally PATHETIC music of all time."

"I understand." Sark sounded as if it hurt to say.

"Good. I'll send over some Sonic Youth CDs in the morning. You can go home now."

Sark wasted no time in doing that. He would feel much better once he could relax in pleasant surroundings and put on _This One's for You. _It certainly hadn't been his day.

END


End file.
